


Suburbia

by RaspberryTree



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: A trope fest, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Clarke, F/F, Neighbors with benefits, Officer Woods, Smut, Suburb, Wealthy Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-07 07:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12836670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaspberryTree/pseuds/RaspberryTree
Summary: After a draining divorce, Clarke Griffin moves to the suburbs for a fresh start. Her first night in the two-story house doesn't go as hoped, but Clarke might just find something worthy out of it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly tropey crack. Also, my take on the Lexa from 214 who just went and kissed the girl she liked.

Her hair is still shot through with pink highlights. No matter how many times she's rinsed it off, Clarke can still see the embarrassing reminder of her midnight whim, eight days ago, after she received note her divorce was finalized. There would be no more papers to sign, no more mornings waking up with migraines, dreading that her lawyer would call in to tell her there'd been an unexpected pushback, no more shared bills, no more _Mrs._ , no more pity lunches with the friends she'd never felt close to, no more in-laws with plans for her future, and no more Finn Collins.

Naturally, alone in a hotel room with no one to celebrate with, Clarke had felt the urge to go out and do something out of character. Dyeing her hair hot pink had sounded like a great idea at 1AM in the aisle of the 24/7 store, but the morning had come with the harsh realization that she was a twenty-seven-year-old divorcée, _not_ a teenager. Fortunately, she'd boarded the flight to Connecticut three days later.

A year ago, when the divorce had been put in motion, Clarke had agreed she'd be the one moving out. The apartment was too big for two people who only spoke through their lawyers, too gloomy in all seasons of the year, and too full of memories that stirred up unpleasant feelings. A brutal need for change took root; change from the ups-and-downs of San Francisco, the galas the Collins family so adored to throw, the empty art commissions Clarke took on to occupy herself, the fog, and even the everyday people—though Clarke liked them a lot better than she did her own social circle.

Her real estate agent had looked everywhere, from Los Angeles to Chicago, but it was finally Clarke who had woken up one day thinking about a suburb in New Mavis, Connecticut. She'd remembered staying there with her father when she was a kid, biking down the colorful residential streets, delighting in the tight-knit family businesses, the easy chatter, the fall colors and spring blooms. The process had sped up quite a bit once she'd learned of a vacant two-story house on the very same street.

Moving out had been easy. Clarke didn't have much she cared about—a few canvases, art supplies, clothes, shoes, her desk, and the lounge chair she'd bought with her first paycheck a few years ago—and the excitement of finally turning a page had outweighed the anxiety.

But moving in? It almost makes Clarke wish she'd dragged her mom to help. Between the piles of poorly labeled boxes—her fault, she has to admit—and the pouring rain outside, it's not exactly the ideal first day she imagined.

The moving company is efficient though, and Clarke has to thank the burly team for getting her bed and desk up the stairs. They're like a squad of lumberjacks, flannel shirts and bushy beards included. They don't talk much but when they do, it's loud and curt but strangely efficient, like a dialect of their own. Clarke doesn't have much to offer but she has time to order some pizza and they're happy to devour the slices.

When it's all said and done, Gustus, the head of the team, gives her some useful numbers in case of emergencies and Clarke realizes he must be from around here, or at least close enough that he'd want to pass on some of his friends' business cards, all located around New Mavis. He gives her a final welcome before leaving with his coworkers, sweaty but happy after a fulfilling snack.

Clarke lets out a long sigh and surveys the suburb from her new porch: the rows of flowering street-trees, the kept lawns, the chalk drawings not yet washed off by the rain, and every little suburban detail she never thought she could appreciate. The quality of the air doesn't hurt, either.

She goes back to unpacking feeling lighter, and she's got two boxes emptied when someone knocks at her door. It's a couple, the guy tall with a shaved head and the woman not much shorter with a heavily pregnant belly. Clarke's not sure who of the two is more attractive, but she has to suppress a laugh when she notices the pie in the guy's large hand. It's almost cliché enough to make her wonder if she's imagining it.

"Hey," the woman beams, "we just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. I'm Octavia. This is my boyfriend, Lincoln."

"Clarke. Nice to meet you."

"This is for you," Lincoln offers, handing her the pie.

Clarke thanks him, her stomach already growling at the sight of thick apple slices and a crispy crust. "This is a dangerous gift to get after an entire day of unpacking," she chuckles.

Octavia grins. "No judgment here. I could eat two in one sitting."

"Three," Lincoln corrects.

"Ignore him," Octavia says with a soft elbow to his arm. "I actually made these for the potluck we're throwing at our house tomorrow afternoon. We wanted to do something different for our baby shower. You're welcome to come. Your direct neighbors are probably leaving you a couple days to settle, so that way you can get to know some of them more easily."

"That would be great, thank you."

"Of course. We're at 6095 across the street, right at the curve. Big drooling dog in the front yard but he's harmless, I promise."

"No problem. My husb—my ex had an English Mastiff. Used to slobber all over my sketches, so I know the score."

"You draw?" Lincoln asks.

"Mostly paint," Clarke clarifies.

"I'd love to see some of your work. I sketch a lot myself."

"He's being modest," Octavia says. "His work is framed all over our Parks & Rec department."

"So you're an artist?" Clarke asks, glad she can find common ground with the first two neighbors she's properly met.

"I'm a cop; drawing's more of a hobby really," Lincoln answers, now almost sheepish.

Ah. Clarke nods, curious to see his pieces one day. If anything, this conversation is already more interesting than any San Fran gabfest over the last Polaroid picture crowned as revolutionary art.

"Are you a cop, too?" She asks Octavia.

"PE teacher at NM High. Well, not so much now that I've got two basketballs rolling around my uterus."

"Two?"

"Twin girls," Lincoln reveals with a soft grin.

"Wow, congrats," Clarke says, not without mild surprise. Octavia looks younger than her—not by much, but enough that Clarke briefly marvels at the differences in her own life. Never once did she feel ready to have kids with Finn. There was brief talk of it, sure, but mostly after his parents brought it up at dinner parties and he felt compelled to ask her on the drive back home. He never seemed ready or particularly enthused by the idea either.

"I forgot—do you need any help unpacking?" Octavia asks. "I can't really bend down but we've got some time on our hands."

"Oh no, don't worry. I've got it under control so far," Clarke smiles.

"Well holler if you need us. Guess we'll see you tomorrow? It starts at 4PM but feel free to swing by whenever you can."

"Perfect. Thanks again."

"And don't worry about bringing anything. This neighborhood's so damn over the top at potlucks that we'll be drowning in food until I pop."

*

The rain relents by nightfall and Clarke is kind of surprised by how she already misses it. The sound of it made the house a little less quiet, she thinks. She puts on music and rewards herself with some of Octavia's pie and a glass of champagne after she finally finishes unpacking everything in the bedroom and hanging all her pictures and paintings around the house. She puts the empty boxes in the backyard, deciding she'll deal with them in the morning.

She's exhausted and boneless by the time she drags herself upstairs and goes through her nightly routine. She opens the bedroom window for some fresh air and flops back on her mattress, thankful she had the smarts to make her bed before anything else. Her satin sheets have never felt better than now, and Clarke falls asleep with her face buried in her pillow.

It's around 4AM when she's woken up by scratching sounds. They're a nuisance at first, but not enough to pull her out of bed. She frowns to herself, half asleep, until the scratching becomes louder and sleep evades her completely. She gets up, disoriented, and looks out the window into her backyard.

When one of the moving boxes starts to move, she lets out a shriek and clutches her heart. There's a family of six raccoons—a mother and her cubs, she guesses—tearing at the cardboard and digging around the ground, turning over the grass and dirt, eating fallen apples from the tree Clarke didn't know produced fruit, and sniffing at the glass door that leads inside.

Clarke has seen some wild raccoons before, but she's sure she'd remember them being the size of a baby elephant—or maybe not that big; but _still_ , they're clearly not starving creatures. She steps away from the window and bites her lip, wondering if she should just… go back to sleep and pray they'll scamper away.

She tries. For five minutes, she really does try.

When she hears hissing and what sounds like a fight, though, she throws the sheets off and looks down the window again.

"Oh you have got to be kidding me," she mutters.

Another adult raccoon has made its way into the backyard, clearly not to the mother's delight. Clarke guesses it's a male and by the looks of it, he's interested in stealing the apples away from the cubs. When the fight escalates and the male doesn't relent, Clarke acts on impulse and rushes down the staircase. She grabs a mop and stops at the glass door, worried when sharp teeth start to bite and nails start to scratch.

Clarke's pitiful mop isn't much of a weapon against that. The cubs look okay for the most part, huddled together near the base of the tree, but their mother's taking more bites than Clarke saw upstairs. She slides open the door and shouts out at them, making them jump apart in surprise. The female scurries to her cubs and pushes them back into the hole beneath the wooden fence, disappearing in the night.

Before she can congratulate herself, Clarke feels the male raccoon hurry between her legs and into the house. She shrieks at the brush of fur, and her anger spikes when his muddy feet leave prints on the floor.

"You little shit! Hey, come back!"

He must be frightened because he runs into the wall and then turns around to bare his teeth at her, less than accommodating of her demand. She raises her mop in defense, but he suddenly stomps forward making an odd garble of hissing and growling sounds. 

Clarke doesn't risk it; for all she knows, this little beast is rabid. She runs around him and back up the staircase, slamming her bedroom door shut. She quickly looks down the window, praying she'll see the fat mammal make his way into the backyard. After a long minute, she imagines him ripping into her furniture or making his way up. It's too early to be rational. She grabs her cell and immediately regrets not asking for Lincoln's number. Even Octavia and her unborn twins could probably deal with an angry raccoon better than she can. But not knowing anyone doesn't leave Clarke much of a choice.

She calls the cops and explains the situation while monitoring the backyard. The officer on the phone is kind enough—though Clarke swears she can hear a snort—and tells her he's sending out the animal control officer on duty. He offers to stay on the line to calm her down, to which Clarke frowns before promptly hanging up.

She's still upstairs when the doorbell rings.

"Fuck."

Clarke cautiously makes her way down, only realizing she's still in her nightgown with ridiculous bed hair and a mop in her hand once she's bypassed the living room. As far as introductions go, she's done better, but she's sure an officer on night-shift has seen worse.

Only it doesn't really seem that way when Clarke opens the door to a woman about her age. She can't really explain it—the pause between them as they take each other in, almost quietly startled. Eventually the officer clears her throat and shows her a control pole and cage.

"Good morning. I'm Officer Woods from animal control. Is the raccoon still inside your house?" She asks.

Clarke nods before stepping aside. "Right in the living room last I checked. He came from the backyard. There was a family, but uh, the mom and her cubs left."

The officer hums in understanding before making her way inside. "Stay here."

Clarke frowns at the curt order, watching as Officer Woods puts the cage down and takes a small white bag from her pocket. She puts food inside the cage and then disappears in the living room.

Clarke stands still for a few minutes, alert when she hears a scuffle. It doesn't last long, quickly followed by the snap of the cage door.

"No way…"

She walks to the living room and stops when she sees Officer Woods crouched down and the raccoon safe in the cage, happily chewing on what looks like nuts.

"Not much of a fighter," Officer Woods announces without looking at her. It has an air of arrogance to it, as if Clarke's wasted her time with something unimportant. She gets up to peek at the backyard before turning to Clarke.

"Do you mind if I check?"

Clarke shakes her head, a little dumbfounded by the cage still sitting in the middle of her living room. She goes around it and stands in the doorway, watching as Officer Woods examines the destroyed boxes and scratch marks on the apple tree. She spots the hole beneath the wooden fence.

"You'll have to fill that," she monotones.

"Yeah, I figured," Clarke answers with more bite than she intends.

Officer Woods loosens her grip on the control pole before nodding toward the boxes. "I'd recommended flattening them before you leave them out."

"Got it," Clarke says, unsure how this woman's gotten under her skin in just a few minutes.

Officer Woods nods before making her way back inside. Clarke slides the door tightly shut, eager to get back to bed as soon as possible.

"Welcome to the neighborhood, by the way."

Clarke blinks before realizing Officer Woods is talking to her again. "Oh. Jeez. Yeah, thanks."

The woman stares for so long that Clarke wonders if she's got something on her face. She realizes what she forgot. "Sorry, I'm Clarke."

"Lexa."

It feels odd to do this in her nightgown with a raccoon eating sloppily next to them, but somehow Clarke's not surprised something like this would happen to her at 4AM in her new house.

"Mops aren't very effective against raccoons," Lexa suddenly says. "Brooms with hard bristle, maybe."

"Okay," Clarke answers, not sure what the difference might be.

"You're not from the suburbs, are you?"

"Born and raised in Pacific Heights. San Francisco."

"Socialite?"

"Painter actually, but thanks for that brilliant assumption."

Lexa raises a brow. "Your picture is in the _Socialite Magazine_ article framed on the wall behind you."

Clarke turns around and feels her cheeks heat up. She curses herself for putting the damn photo up in the first place. "I was attending a gala for my mother's charity, not that it's any of your business," she justifies.

Lexa tries poorly to contain a smirk—one that makes Clarke wish she could very well throw her mop at her. "Sorry. You're an artist, then."

"Yes."

Lexa looks at one wall, taking in the small canvas with varicolored streaks of paint.

"Hadn't noticed the signature."

Clarke forces a smile before folding her hands in front of her. "Do you need help with the cage, Officer?"

"No, that won't be necessary."

"Well then thank you for everything, but I'd like to get back to bed now."

Lexa's mouth parts open and Clarke isn't sure if she's taken aback or amused. "Right. Be on my way." She slides the control pole atop the cage before picking it up with one hand.

"Good night," Clarke says.

"Yep."

Clarke frowns as Lexa walks toward the front door. The raccoon turns around, seemingly unconcerned by its future, and Clarke half-believes he's showing her his ass on purpose. She scowls, ticked off by both the animal and the woman holding its cage.

Hopefully, this night is the exception and not the rule.

*

It's 10AM when Clarke slowly wakes up. She has a blissful few seconds where she doesn't remember if her raccoon-filled night was reality or dream, until the fog of sleep clears away and she groans at the memory. She flops around on her stomach and slides her arms beneath the pillow.

So her first night didn't go so well.

Big deal.

She'll get breakfast, fill up the hole in the backyard, empty more boxes, and then get ready for Octavia and Lincoln's potluck. She'll get to know her neighbors, swap stories, and forget all about the animal control officer and her absurdly green-eyed stare.

And the plan goes off without a hitch. A hot shower followed by hot coffee and buttery croissants are the perfect wake up. So perfect that Clarke doesn't even care her backyard looks messy. She flattens the boxes and fills up the hole with her hands, telling herself she'll beautify the garden once she's fully settled.

She puts her hair up in a bun and finishes emptying the kitchen boxes, a little proud of herself for being so organized. Her fridge isn't stocked but hopefully she'll get to eat both lunch and dinner at Octavia's, though it feels wrong not to bring anything at all.

She changes out of her plain shirt and shorts and puts on a white summer dress and a little makeup. She looks at herself in the mirror and takes a slow breath.

So maybe she was a bit of a socialite in San Francisco—it doesn't mean she's any less nervous to attend large gatherings. With the way Octavia described it, a lot of people Clarke wants to get along with will be there. And if she's going to start fresh here, it can hardly go the way it went with Officer Woods. Not that she's to blame for that, Clarke tells herself with a frown.

It doesn't need to be perfect, but Clarke hopes her instinct was right when she remembered this neighborhood. It's been twenty years, sure, and even her dad moved out to Bridgeport fifteen years ago, but those memories lingered for a reason. She can't be wrong on this—not like she was wrong before, on her college degree, on Finn, on keeping up appearances for the sake of others. She can't be.

Clarke walks down the street fiddling with her keys in one hand and a pleat of her dress in the other. She sees a few people holding dishes walk up to one house and heads in their direction. A large Rottweiler in the front yard chews on a huge bone, his short tail waggling lazily.

The door is open and Clarke steps inside, feeling a little more at ease when she spots Octavia near a table already covered in all sorts of dishes.

"Clarke! You made it."

Octavia drags one of her friends with her, a shorter woman holding a bottleneck beer.

"Clarke, this is Raven, our resident handywoman."

"Nice to meet you," Clarke smiles, shaking Raven's hand.

"It's good to put a face to the name," Raven says. "How's the plumbing working out for you?"

Clarke blinks. "Pardon?"

"Shit, sorry, rephrasing: I was contracted to work on your house a few months back. Real estate agent wanted the best of the best, so I basically trashed the old plumbing and put in all the new pipes. You should be set for a good century."

"Oh, wow, thank you—I took one of the greatest showers of my life this morning, so no complaints," Clarke answers with a chuckle.

Raven smirks at Octavia. "Told you I'm the fucking best."

"Give it up. You're not touching my garbage disposal."

"Fucking hell, that thing makes noise like a tractor. I bet even Clarke can hear it and she's all the way across the street," Raven says, looking at Clarke. "Back me up?"

Clarke shakes her head. "Sorry, but I'm pretty sure we'd still lose three to two here."

Octavia pats her stomach. "Damn right. Now make yourself useful and introduce Clarke around. I gotta get Lincoln's mom drunk before she learns we're still not getting married."

Clarke watches Octavia grab a bottle of wine at the table before she joins Lincoln and who Clarke assumes is his mother. Raven grins, turning back to Clarke.

"Gotta love in-laws. Well, almost."

Clarke hums noncommittally, glancing at Raven's beer. "Know where I could grab one of those?"

"Wait, did I strike a chord? I'm sorry—"

"No worries. Turned that page a while ago."

Raven grimaces. "In that case I'm guessing offering you a Raging Bitch would be a bit of a step back?"

Clarke lets out a laugh. "I think that'd be fine."

*

She sticks to that first beer for the next forty minutes, preferring to have a clear head when she meets new people. And she meets many. Raven mostly stays by her side, introducing her to neighbors or anyone Clarke is likely to bump into at grocery stores or the closest movie theater. It's more jarring than Clarke realized. She's used to the rush of new faces and new names, but the reciprocal attention throws her off.

For the most part, she doesn't mention anything about her failed marriage. There's a nice buzz around the room and she doesn't want to sour it. It's a little amazing to watch how quickly the room fills up. Octavia and Lincoln must be really adored—or maybe it's just everyone on this street and invitations are never thrown in the trash. Clarke wonders if San Francisco is too ingrained in her for them to truly embrace her.

She tips back her beer and politely excuses herself from a group conversation, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed. She knows it's irrational—she just officially moved here a _day_ ago—but it's rooted in what her failures have taught her: every social circle notices a fraud eventually.

Clarke's in the small corridor when she hears a voice behind her:

"It's a lot, isn't it?"

She turns around and finds herself face to face with no other than Officer Woods, this time out of uniform and in a simple shirt and jeans. The rolled up sleeves show off the end of a tattoo—like swirling vines of some kind—and Clarke has to admit she's curious. Her hair is down and she's got freakishly well-applied eyeliner on. She looks… softer somehow. Maybe Clarke really _was_ the cranky one last night.

"It's different," Clarke answers quickly, not wanting to admit to any discomfort.

Lexa approaches her. "It's still a lot to me, and I've lived here twelve years."

Clarke offers a smile, unsure how to proceed. Her heart's thrumming a little fast from her slight buzz and she's still not sure what to make of their last encounter.

"How's the raccoon?" She asks.

"Back in the forest."

"You know, he really was aggressive before you came over."

A lazy smile grows on Lexa's face. "I'm sure he was."

"I'm not making this up."

"I believe you."

Clarke frowns. "No, you think I saw some lazy fatso in my living room and immediately called the cops."

Lexa lets out a laugh. "I really don't."

"Well you could've been less rude about catching it. And that cop on the phone? Nearly laughed his ass off."

Lexa tuts. "Officer Murphy can be a little insensitive to home invasions of that nature. Or just in general, really."

"I'll bet." 

Lexa bites her lip, her stare more intense in the light of day. Her thumb brushes over the ridge of her plastic cup. "Are you a fan of bowling?"

Clarke blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Bowling. Can I take you out tomorrow?"

"Are—You mean a date?"

"Yes. 10 frames, dinner, a walk in the park. That type of thing people do."

Clarke gapes at her, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "You can't be serious. Are you like this with everyone?"

"Like what?" 

"I don't even know you."

"I'm Lexa."

"Right, well, Lexa, I'm not interested."

"Not interested in dating or not interested in the person asking?"

"Not interested in being your third choice of the day, I'm sure."

"The fourth actually," Lexa answers quickly, pulling another smile.

"Wow," Clarke scoffs, dumbfounded. "Well, congratulations on being so persistent. I'm sure lucky number five will love to say yes to such a charmer."

"I'm joking."

"It's still a no."

Lexa chuckles. "All right, message received."

"Do you realize how unprofessional this is?"

"Asking an attractive woman out to bowling?"

"You were inside my house just last night!"

"Well, sure, but I'm not on duty right now. I thought I'd ask."

Clarke struggles to come up with an answer, taken aback by Lexa's repeated boldness. "Look, I—"

"You don't need to explain yourself," Lexa says before finishing her cup. "I'll get out of your hair. You should enjoy the rest of the party. And feel free to take some of the food home; Octavia can barely close her fridge anymore." She walks back toward the main room, where the chatter has somehow managed to get louder.

Clarke stands alone, completely stunned.

*

To Octavia's insistence, Clarke does take some of the Mac & Cheese and a good amount of chicken wings. She leaves her house a little later than she expected, taken by conversations that pleasantly captivate her. It's a world apart from what she knows, but as far as first steps go, it's a success.

She puts the food in her fridge and fills up a glass of water, standing by the kitchen window and looking out at the street. She sees some of the people she's met walk back to their houses, giving her a better idea of who lives where.

She freezes when she sees Lexa.

Clarke pretends not to care, looking down at her glass and rinsing it twice. She glances up a few times, until she notices Lexa opening the little fence of the house smack-dab in front of hers.

There's no way.

She hears faint barking and then Lexa laughs—or at least that's what Clarke interprets from the way her shoulders shake a little. Lexa unlocks the door and is greeted by a small dog—a corgi, maybe, Clarke can't get a good look—waggling its tail against her leg. Lexa goes inside and really, Clarke should look away. She knows she should.

But it's too late for that. Lexa sees her, and if that weren't enough, fucking  _waves_. 

Clarke nearly drops her glass as she quickly averts her eyes. When she looks up again, Lexa's door is closed.


	2. Chapter 2

New Mavis is a quiet city; a little less than thirty thousand people who don't seem quite as eager to take on the morning as San Francisco. At least that's Clarke's impression when she finds a parking spot in less than two minutes. She stops for breakfast in a coffee shop and picks a seat in a corner. She takes her time with her latte and croissant, discreetly watching people trickle in, some early birds like her carrying their laptops and books. There are a few families, too, some young and older couples with kids of all ages. Clarke remembers when her dad used to carry her on his shoulders, laughing when her sloppy eating resulted in what he called 'breadcrumb hair'.

It's unsettling being so alone in a place she barely knows - Clarke can't deny it, even though she's the one who sought this out. She thinks about calling her mom but stops herself when she remembers the time difference. She has a college friend, Wells, in New York, but since the divorce she can't pinpoint the last time they emailed, let alone called. She'll have to remedy that.

When it nears the time of her appointment, Clarke makes her way down the avenue with her phone in hand, following the map that points her in the right direction. She walks straight into a pedestrian and apologizes profusely, shrinking back when the woman glares at her. She's got the cheekbones of royalty and the body of an athlete, all of which scream at Clarke to step aside and let her pass. After that, Clarke tucks her phone in her pocket and keeps her eyes straight ahead.

The place she's looking for is on a narrow street with brick buildings and great lighting, which make it perfect. Creative Ground is a popular gallery for artists looking to rent space, and Clarke immediately likes the energy. There are open rooms and soft colors, with paintings, sketches, and photographs hung on the walls. Clarke likes the decor; the minimalistic quality that doesn't take away from the exhibits.

Indra Carter, the owner, greets her with a firm handshake. She wears a dark suit and browline glasses, and Clarke feels the wedding band on her finger. Indra doesn't waste time with small talk, but she isn't an unfriendly person. She actually eases Clarke's nerves with a meticulous walkthrough, showing that behind her intimidating appearance is incredible passion for art. She talks about the track lighting each room has, the pedestals and shelves, should Clarke need them, the option to mount projectors, and the two gallery assistants' expertise. Indra's attention to detail is more than Clarke hoped for.

They spend an hour in her office going over Clarke's photographs of her paintings, discussing possible arrangements, how the space could be used to their advantage, and the matters of pricing and percentages. It's a bit of a surprise when Indra suggests, empathetically, that Clarke readjust her expectations.

It hits Clarke that her asking price reflects her status and clientele in San Francisco. In New Mavis, Connecticut? Her name doesn't ring a bell. There's her website, of course, and Indra has some advice on casting a wider net online, but as far as the gallery is concerned, it's still a start from scratch. Clarke's last commission lasts from before the divorce was finalized, and for the most part she met her patrons through the Collins family.

Her career took a hit, to say the least, but Clarke always knew what she would lose when she divorced her husband. It didn't matter how low she imagined Finn's parents would cast her down. She knows she took advantage of every opportunity they offered her, knows very well how easily she took the money slipped her way in exchange for her presence at dinner parties. There's no denying it. But beneath the guilt of it all, she still remembers the euphoria she felt when she sold her first piece, before even meeting Finn, and she clings to the hope of it happening again.

After the meeting with Indra ends, they set up a follow up next week to concretize their plans - provided Clarke confirms she wants the space. On the way back to her car, she walks in a bit of a trance. What she imagined for months is now within reach, but with reality comes the possibility of failure. And as she sits back in her car, Clarke feels an uneasy chill crawl down her spine.

Later in the afternoon, with the last of the trash finally taken out, she wanders listlessly in her house. She doesn't know what it is; either the adrenaline from the move finally leaving her body, or the sinking realization she's thrown herself into the unknown without a security net. Now that she's fully unpacked, it feels like she's constantly on edge, waiting for the next big thing to happen.

It's not like she didn't plan for this. Buying a house, unlike the streaks of faded pink in her hair, wasn't an impulse. She had the savings and, admittedly, her mother's financial backing as well. She thought of every detail and jumped through every hoop for the move to happen as smoothly as possible. It wasn't irrational and she doesn't regret it, not even one second. There's just a lot to be said about going through a divorce and a move in the same year. Now that both are done, Clarke feels aimless. It's bizarre not having her days crammed with phone calls and checklists. Her body feels strange, too. It's as if she wants to run a marathon but also sleep for twelve hours.

She needs to get out of the house.

It's a beautiful day and soaking up the sun will do her good.

Clarke changes out of her skirt and blazer for an old top and her jeans, lets her hair down from its bun, and wipes off her makeup. She wouldn't be shocked if Indra thought she looked more like an accountant than a painter.

She makes her way outside and stops short when she takes notice of her front yard. Unlike most of the neighborhood, there are no flowerbeds or bushy greens. The grass is healthy but it's growing fast and Clarke has no clue where she'd even begin mowing it. On the upside, it gives her a direction for the day.

Re-energized by her sudden idea, she hurries to her car and peels away from the house in just a few minutes.

*

The Home Depot is a maze that Clarke is pretty certain will swallow her alive. Between the garden section, with its six hundred flower bulbs, and the tool section, with its endless rows of power tool combo kits, it's a miracle her head isn't pounding.

After chucking a few tulip bulbs in her cart, she finds some comfort in the mower section, easier in its choices, though the different pieces of equipment are lost on her.

"You can borrow mine."

Clarke stops at the sight of Lexa pushing a full cart toward her. She wears a loose grey t-shirt, giving Clarke a still incomplete peek at the tattoo around her bicep, and her thick hair falls in waves past her shoulders. Even under the fluorescent lighting of Home Depot, there's no denying Lexa is a striking woman. Clarke suddenly wishes she'd kept her suit on after all - or at least didn't look like she just rolled out of bed… again.

Lexa passes by her, grabbing a Garden in a Jar on the way.

"Or Raven's," Lexa continues. "Our street hasn't bought a mower in three years; it'd be a shame to break the tradition."

"Oh I wasn't really - I wouldn't even know where to start," Clarke says, turning around as Lexa continues down the aisle. "But thank you for offering…" she trails off with a frown.

It's the third time she has to watch Lexa walk away and it rubs her the wrong way.

"Hey, aren't you supposed to be sleeping?" She calls out without thinking.

Lexa stops and turns around, her brows furrowed in amusement. "I'm sorry?"

Clarke clings to her resolve. "You work night shifts, but you're always out during the day. First at Octavia's, now here."

"Worrying about me?"

"Just curious about my neighbor, that's all."

Lexa smiles. "Neighbors. Right."

Clarke feels herself flush at the memory of Lexa catching her through the window. Her hands tighten on the rail of the cart.

"You could've mentioned it that first night," she says.

Lexa shrugs, still far too amused for Clarke's liking. "I was trying to keep it professional. Besides, I had a… vicious animal in a cage waiting to be released."

Clarke feels the argument on the tip of her tongue, but finds herself interrupted by a third party:

"I finally found the fucking lights," someone exclaims behind Lexa. "You got the gift jar?"

Clarke immediately freezes as she recognizes the woman who approaches Lexa with obvious familiarity. It's the pedestrian from this morning, and Clarke still remembers the harsh glare directed her way when she walked straight into her.

"They only have the one," Lexa answers, showing her the glass jar.

The woman stares at it a full five-seconds before looking up at Lexa. "This is dirt."

"It's a starting kit, Anya."

Anya turns it around in her gloved hand, completely unconvinced.

"So the seeds grow in this thing?"

"Yes, that's what starting kits presume to do."

Anya puts the jar back in the cart. "You know what? I don't care. Kid's a weirdo like her dad."

"You like her dad. You want to impress her dad."

"Fuck off. You done here?" Anya glances over Lexa's shoulder and notices Clarke for the first time, who in her embarrassment at being caught quickly looks away.

"I know you," Anya notes. "You're the suit from this morning."

Lexa turns around. "Oh I'm sorry - Clarke, this is my friend Anya. Anya, this is Clarke, my new front door neighbor."

"Nice to meet you formally," Clarke says, grimacing at herself. "And sorry again."

"Clarke is a painter," Lexa tells Anya, whose eyebrows rise to her hairline.

"Really now? Pegged you for someone out of Wall Street."

"I had an important meeting with a gallerist," Clarke explains. "Got a little nervous."

Lexa and Anya exchange a look. "Indra Carter?" Anya asks.

"Yes, how did you—"

"There's only one gallerist worth a damn in New Mavis, and you look like someone who does her research. Now if you'll excuse me," Anya says, dumping the string of lights in Lexa's cart, "I've got a chainsaw to find."

She walks out of the aisle as quickly as she appeared, but it's her last sentence that has Clarke stare in utter confusion.

"Her boyfriend is a park ranger," Lexa clarifies.

"Oh."

"He shares a birthday with his daughter."

"Ah."

"Presents aren't really Anya's strong suit. It's a very stressful time for her."

"With good reason," Clarke answers, mustering a smile.

There's a long pause, and Clarke feels her heart race when she catches Lexa looking at her. She doesn't glance away this time, caught up in Lexa's intensity. To be honest, Clarke didn't want to think about their last encounter. She doesn't know what to make of it - getting asked out so brazenly. It's not like she can afford to play games. Lexa turning out to be her neighbor just made it that more obvious. What a mess it would be at the end of it. And Clarke can't imagine they have much in common for a sustainable relationship. Lexa can be so… so…

"It's my night off," Lexa tells her, putting an end to Clarke's risky line of thought. "I'm enjoying some sunlight." At Clarke's frown, she clarifies: "To answer your earlier question."

"Right. Good for you."

Lexa nods before setting her hands on the cart handle again. "Guess I'll see you around."

"Yep."

Lexa chuckles before ambling down the aisle, seemingly not in a rush to find Anya. It occurs to Clarke she still ends up watching Lexa walk away.

*

Clarke toys with her phone all afternoon, wondering if she should call Indra right away. There's nothing more to think about: she wants the space. Sitting around an entire week to mull it over won't do any good.

She ends up having an early dinner, chicken with rice, and trying hard not to look out the kitchen window when she cleans up. Having her own place feels good though. It's big for one person, and a bit quiet when she doesn't have music on, but it's hers. She thinks about maybe getting a pet, but she'll have to look into the risks associated with paint fumes first. Maybe she'll reconsider a few months after she's settled in.

She jolts in place when she hears the doorbell.

Raven, dressed in a dark dress, looks at her from head to toe. "You're definitely not wearing that tonight."

Clarke opens the door wider. "What's tonight?"

"Bar night. Octavia's party was a little overwhelming, so I'm introducing you to some of our hanging spots instead. Drinks, some music, a dance floor, but nothing too crazy. You in?"

Clarke perks up, more than a little eager at the prospect of a night out. She liked spending time with Raven, and the promise of alcohol without the expectation of being a social butterfly more than seals the deal.

"Give me five minutes to get changed?" She asks without skipping a beat.

Raven grins. "You got it."

*

If New Mavis in the morning was a little quiet, it's completely the opposite at night. At least on Club Avenue, coined by the locals in the 70's. Raven pulls Clarke out of their cab unceremoniously, and god it's good to feel young again. Clarke can't remember the last time she went out with friends - though granted she had none that weren't her ex's or a coast away. It's a detail she should probably leave out tonight.

The bar is nothing special at first glance: at long wooden counter already stained with beer, cheap seats filled by tipsy patrons, dim corners with couples curled together, a small but crowded dance floor, some upbeat yet unrecognizable music, and the unmistakable smell of sweat and booze. As far as Clarke is concerned, it's perfect.

Raven leads her to a large table in the back, where she introduces her to Echo, who Clarke can tell is on her way to being drunk, and Ontari, who Raven cuts off during a seeming rant about the British royal family. Raven excuses herself to get some beers, leaving Clarke to take a seat opposite Ontari.

"You're blue door then, huh?" Echo asks.

"By blue door she means 6002," Ontari clarifies.

Clarke nods. "Fresh from the West coast. What about you? Do you live near Raven?"

Ontari shakes her head. "I wish. Echo and I live in the same building nearby. Landlord just upped our rent before lease renewal, so we're looking elsewhere."

"Sounds like a peach."

"Ice cold," Echo mutters before tipping back the rest of her red wine.

"You better not be talking about work," Raven cuts in as she sits down with two beers. She clinks hers with Clarke's before taking a sip. "I don't want to hear about jungle gyms tonight."

Ontari narrows her eyes at her. "It was one night."

Raven scoffs before turning to Clarke. "Ontari teaches kids. If you put her and Octavia in a room together, you might just have to sit through their puke tales."

"Lovely," Clarke chuckles before drinking from her beer.

Like Raven promised, the mood is relaxed throughout the night, with Clarke learning more about the town and its various suburbs. Of course Raven boasts the most about theirs, which has both character and visual appeal. Clarke can't disagree with that. She limits herself to two beers, sticking to the small pretzels and pistachios instead. She'll spare the group her drunken self, a sort of blubbering mess who's no fun for anyone in the near proximity.

"So Clarke," Echo mumbles at one point, "Why New Mavis anyway? Surely not the shit weather?"

Clarke laughs. "You must be the fourth person to say that."

"Wait for the winter," Raven shudders, "You'll thank us for the prep."

"It's not really a big story. My dad used to live here and it felt right to come back," Clarke tells them, choosing to skip the rest of it. "Let's just say San Francisco didn't work out, and I needed change bigger than a haircut."

"You mean like this?" Ontari asks, picking up a strand of pink.

"Definitely the kind of decision I make after a third beer," Clarke defends with an embarrassed smile.

"Let's refill that pretzel bowl then," Raven chirps.

"Oh don't worry, I'll get it," Clarke cuts in as she picks up the bowl.

"In that case, I'm gonna hit the dance floor. Echo you in?"

"Nope, I've got my eyes on Mr. Flannel at the bar. If you'll excuse me," Echo smirks as she gets up. "Great meeting you, Clarke."

"You too."

"Well, I'm dancing," Raven announces before finishing the last of her beer.

By the look on Ontari's face and the tapping of her foot beneath the table, Clarke figures she'll join Raven soon enough.

She walks toward the bar with the pretzel bowl and finds a small space at the end of it, where the bartender eventually spots her and drops a handful of pretzels before scurrying away to take more orders. After a few minutes, Clarke manages to catch a glimpse of Raven and Ontari on the dance floor, their eyes crinkling as they laugh and enjoy the night.

"And here I thought New Mavis couldn't get any smaller."

Clarke turns to see Lexa slide in next to her, an empty beer in one hand. If Clarke thought she looked stunning earlier, it's hard to tear her eyes away from her now. Lexa's hair is swept to the side and she wears a black dress, a nice contrast to Clarke's red one.

"Lexa."

"It's two for two today. Enjoying the night?"

Clarke nods, feeling a thrill. "You?"

Lexa turns to the dance floor, waiting to spot Raven before she turns back around with a smile. "I'm surprised Raven didn't take you to TonDC. She's starting you off slow."

"Is that another bar?"

"Underground club."

"Underground? Can I gamble my house away and drink some stolen champagne from the south of France?"

Lexa laughs. "It's a club, not a crime ring. Trust me, I'm an officer."

"For cats," Clarke points out in jest.

Lexa feigns offense. "I see how it is."

"I'm sorry, you gave me an easy opening."

Lexa shakes her head. "No excuses."

"I'd offer you some pretzels but I'm not sure that would do the trick."

Lexa can't refrain from smiling. The sight makes Clarke a little wobbly, or her heart a little weak. They weren't this close before. She couldn't see the details in Lexa's eyes or the freckle on her lip. She couldn't guess how it would feel to have their little bubble, their little world in this overcrowded space. Maybe it's the alcohol loosening her up, but she feels a rush interacting with Lexa.

And Lexa isn't the shy type either. She doesn't look away when she gets caught staring. She holds the stare like it's the most amusing thing in the world to her - amusing and daring.

"Why do you look at me like that?" Clarke manages to ask in a murmur.

Lexa clears her throat. "I thought asking you out made that obvious. I should refrain, considering… but it's a little difficult."

It's plainly honest, painfully so, and Clarke wonders if she should refrain herself too. They're much closer now, and it's a fight against reason not to glance down at Lexa's lips. This is the same woman she rejected. There was a reason for that. She hasn't dated in years. She just moved here. She's living on the last of her savings. There's no way this could ever be a good idea, no matter how attractive or persuasive Lexa is.

Clarke readies herself to say just as much.

"Want to dance?" She asks in a rasp.

Once the words are out, she can't even bring herself to regret them.

Lexa seems surprised, but also cautiously eager. "What happened to not being interested?"

"Maybe it's the two beers talking."

"I wouldn't want to take advantage."

"Oh please."

"Besides," Lexa shrugs, "I thought we should remain professional at all times."

Clarke shakes her head, finally looking away. "You're enjoying this."

"What would this be, exactly?"

"Me asking you to dance, you rejecting me—"

Lexa straightens. "Wait a second—"

"Didn't peg you for the petty type."

"Clarke." Lexa lets out a laugh and extends her hand. "Will you?"

Clarke reconsiders a moment, but a dance really can't hurt. She takes Lexa's hand and lets her guide her toward the dance floor.

*

It's fairly innocent at first.

Lexa is a good dancer - how can she not be, with hips like that? - and Clarke is neither too sober nor too drunk. She knows how to move her body, and the longer they dance, occasionally showing off to make the other smile, the more she gets into it.

But as the clock ticks and more patrons move from their seats to the dance floor, Lexa draws closer to her and Clarke finds that she enjoys it. She enjoys it a lot, in fact, especially when Lexa spins her, but stops midway to place her hands on her waist. Even with her back against Lexa's front, Clarke can tell she has that infuriating smile on her face as her lips come dangerously close to her ear.

"This is much better than bowling," Lexa says.

"Don't ruin it with words," Clarke retorts, leaning back into Lexa.

She hears Lexa chuckle again and wonders if she drank more than one beer after all. Unlikely, with how fluid her movements are. She knows what she's doing, and that's the trouble.

Trouble that Clarke doesn't want to think about now. Unconsciously, she reaches for Lexa's hand and entwines their fingers as they slide down from her waist to her hips, then dangerously lower still, reaching her thigh and crumpling up the end of her dress.

"Clarke," Lexa breathes, her nose skimming down her neck.

Her lips are so close to her skin that Clarke has to close her eyes to imagine them finally touching her. There's so little between them and yet too much, and if reason be damned, Clarke will give herself this.

She turns around and looks at Lexa's lips before finally reaching her eyes. Lexa doesn't look any less eager to be alone.

"I can drive you home," Lexa says, swallowing hard.

Clarke feels her heart pound. "I should tell Raven."

"Raven seems otherwise occupied…"

Clarke turns around to see her holding her beer as a mic as she sings over the music, her other arm slung around a sober-looking Ontari for support. She turns back to Lexa and nods.

"I'll text her on the way."

Lexa bites her lip before tugging at her hand once more.

*

The drive is silent for the most part. Lexa seems tense, staring straight at the road, which is rather deserted. Clarke mulls over what Lexa said; that she could drive her home. Does she mean she'll let her hop out before backing up into her own driveway? Clarke nearly rolls her eyes at herself. Could she be any more clueless?

In such close proximity once more, Clarke finds that she doesn't want Lexa driving away. She's not sure how it happened – Lexa getting under her skin like this. She doesn't want to fight it though. Before she knows it, Lexa is pulling over in Clarke's driveway, just behind her own car, and turning the engine off. They sit without saying a word for a moment.

When she sees Lexa's house in the rearview mirror, and feels her heart pound harder, Clarke stops tormenting herself.

"Lexa."

"Yes?"

"I didn't take a lot of risks before I decided to turn my life upside down."

"No?"

Clarke undoes her seatbelt before looking at her. "I wasted a lot of time thinking about how people perceive me, and I guess what I'm saying is I don't care anymore."

"That's good," Lexa simply responds.

Clarke nods before closing the gap between them and kissing her hard. Lexa responds in an instant, undoing her own seatbelt to cup Clarke's cheek. The moment Lexa's tongue is in her mouth, Clarke figures she's done for. She pulls Lexa toward her, wanting to feel all of her atop her, but Lexa pulls away with a heady look in her eyes and kiss-swollen lips.

"Would it be unprofessional to take this inside?"

Clarke groans. "Are you always going to hold that against me?"

"Well I'm nothing if not good at following orders."

Clarke pushes her back before opening the door. "We'll see about that."

She grabs her small purse and gets out of the car, a smirk growing on her face when she hears Lexa behind her. She slides her keys in the lock, ignoring the way Lexa kisses her shoulder and then her neck. Or trying to ignore it at least.

Once the door slams shut, Clarke finds that orders are a waste of breath. Lexa's lips are back against hers and her hands slide over her ass before settling back on her hips, happy to let Clarke pull her into the kitchen.

When Clarke bumps into the table, Lexa pushes her up to sit and steps between her thighs, the smug smile on her lips all too quick to re-appear. Clarke can tell she's dying to tease, at least verbally, but perhaps not so bold this time to take that chance. Instead Lexa occupies her mouth with her neck again, sucking on a soft spot as Clarke wraps her arms around her and closes her eyes. She thinks her heart might burst out of her chest from how much she wants this woman.

Lexa's kisses go lower still, and as Clarke leans back, she kisses the swells of her breasts rising and falling with each erratic breath. One dexterous hand goes to unzip the back of Clarke's dress as the other pushes the fabric up a soft thigh. It's maddening and all too slow at the same time.

"Are you sure?" Lexa whispers in her ear, her hand still going up her thigh, just inches away from Clarke's underwear.

Clarke moans in response before kissing Lexa, nipping at her bottom lip to taste her again. Lexa doesn't waste any more time, sliding her hand in her underwear. Her moan is a little deeper when she feels Clarke's heat, parting her folds with two fingers. She caresses her slowly, smiling when Clarke's legs squeeze around her waist. The move prompts her to lay Clarke down on the table, nipping gently at her lip when Clarke hisses from the cold surface against her back.

With her free hand, Lexa tugs down the top of Clarke's dress to take a nipple in her mouth. Her thumb circles around Clarke's clit a few times before she presses down on it, causing Clarke to buck against her.

"Please," Clarke pants, her eyes squeezed shut.

Lexa looks up at her as if enraptured, her eyelids heavy. She's not one to go back on a promise. She enters Clarke with two fingers, kissing her mouth at the same time.

"Fuck," Clarke moans, reaching out to cup Lexa's cheek.

Lexa thrusts faster, and the sound of it shouldn't turn Clarke on that much more. She clings to Lexa, burying her face in her neck as the pleasure builds quickly inside her. It shouldn't feel so good to get fucked on a kitchen table, not when the woman with two fingers deep inside her was a complete stranger days ago. But Clarke can't really give a damn when Lexa picks up the pace.

"Look at me," Lexa orders, or maybe pleas.

Clarke locks into her gaze and bites her lip, but it does little to stop her moans and the breathless calling of Lexa's name. She has to fight back against the impulse to close her eyes, especially when Lexa presses against her clit again. Ultimately she loses as her orgasm hits her, spreading throughout her body in powerful bursts. Maybe she blanks out for a few seconds, only brought back down by Lexa's small kisses against the column of her throat. She's still moving inside her, slowly this time as her thumb swipes over her clit to draw every bit of pleasure out.

As the rush ebbs, Clarke lifts her arm to cover her eyes. 

"Oh god," she mumbles.

She feels Lexa nose at her palm. "Don't be embarrassed."

"That was ridiculously fast."

Lexa caresses her arm. "Hey."

Clarke moves her arm and cracks an eye open. 

Lexa smiles. "All right, you don't have to say anything. In fact we can just give it another go. I'll set up a timer."

"Shut up," Clarke giggles despite her red cheeks.

Lexa stands up, gently pulling Clarke to sit up as well. "Is that a no?"

Clarke narrows her eyes before wrapping her arms around Lexa's neck. "Well, it's getting late. The streets are dangerous at night."

"Hm, I'll never make it home safely."

"Looking a little breathless there, Officer."

"You're one to talk."

Clarke kisses her again, eager to taste more of her. "Let me show you the bed."

*

Later in the night, with Lexa naked behind her and fast asleep, Clarke wonders why she was ever so afraid of change. She's not sure she'll ever get the answer to that one. At least there are a few certainties in her life. Tomorrow she'll wake up deliciously sore. She'll start a new day in this new chapter of her life. The possibilities after that are endless. Maybe Lexa will have stayed, or maybe she'll have sneaked out of bed and gotten dressed before crossing the street to her place. Maybe Clarke will knock at her door and they'll kiss again, or maybe they'll have to settle for an awkward wave at the next neighborhood potluck.

But as Lexa sighs in her sleep and wiggles closer to Clarke, an arm lazily slung over her hip, Clarke has a bit of a feeling she won't wake up to an empty bed.

She closes her eyes and gives into the sleepiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this little story :) Find me at lecrumble on tumblr if you'd like to chat!


End file.
